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Day Seventeen

Writing, per se, took a bit of a back seat today, hence the poor word count. However, I haven’t been idle.

The most productive part of my writing day is spent staring into space. Agatha Christie said that the best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes and I would have to agree with the sentiment. Lying, sleepless, in bed is another good time, much to the disgruntlement of my long-suffering partner. The intermittent illumination, the scratching of my pencil and the turning of the pages of my notebook to catch my thoughts before they disappear into the ether, never to be recalled, do nothing for my relationship.

I’ve tried waiting until the morning, but I’ve discovered, to my eternal regret, that mostly I remember nothing. Nada. Zilch. Sometimes, if I’m very unlucky I remember that there was something I wanted to remember, but I can’t remember what it was.

Like Man Friday’s footprint, a ghostly impression on an otherwise blank canvas.